


A Night to Remember

by Kitty (Tamoline)



Category: Veronica Mars (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-27
Updated: 2012-05-27
Packaged: 2017-11-06 03:07:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/414026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tamoline/pseuds/Kitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just another one of Veronica's cases turns into something else entirely.</p><p>A night to remember.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Night to Remember

__

_The streets wept neon tears, their light jagged and bitter, like the radioactive glow of an alien world. The bones of the city stood starkly illuminated against the roiling night sky; a huddled skeleton of concrete and steel and shattered dreams. Lost souls would find no sanctuary here. Only shadows and secrets and..._

__

Okay, maybe I need to lay off the noir novels a little, especially the ones with prose so purple it's practically ultraviolet. 'Neon tears?' Really? Jeez, Veronica. Save it for your memoirs.

A little less melodramatically: it's a rainy night in Neptune, and the only people out and about are the desperate, the damned and the gainfully employed.

(So maybe I can't *completely* skip the melodrama. So sue me. Or, well, don't, because I *really* don't have any cash to spare right now. Which brings me to...)

I fall squarely into the third category. (And maybe the first, a little. If I'm completely honest. But where's the fun in that?) Veronica Mars, Private Investigator; digging into other people's dirty laundry for fun and profit. And, let me tell you, there's precious little profit in it right now. A casualty of the economy. I certainly can't afford to pick and choose my cases these days.

Which is why I'm parked outside a no-tell motel in a car that smells like wet dog (thanks a lot, Backup) in the middle of the night, in the rain, receiver tuned, camera in hand, waiting and waiting and *waiting* for the break that will crack this case once and for all.

The money shot, so to speak.

The rain drums incessantly on the roof of my car, the steady rhythm of it oddly soothing, almost hypnotic. I shake myself a little, trying to massage the sleep from my eyes. Too many late nights, not enough downtime. You can only burn the candle at both ends for so long before you just burn out. A massive yawn cracks my jaws, and I breathe in deeply, inhaling a moist, stifling closeness along with the stale, greasy odour of takeout and the heavy smell of damp fur. Backup snorts as if he knows I'm thinking about him, smacking his heavy jowls before turning around once or twice and flopping heavily down on the back seat. Just like that, he's comfortable, falling effortlessly into a light doze as if he's ensconced in the finest of doggy beds. I almost envy him. I stretch out my legs as far as I can, trying to relieve the nagging ache in my knee that's just starting to become a real annoyance. The movement helps a little, but not as much as I'd like.

Oh well. At least the discomfort should help me stay awake.

Surveillance detail -- especially solo (sorry, Backup) -- can be the worst of all worlds. Lots of waiting around, but you have to stay alert. No zoning out or dozing off. You never know when you're going to have to spring into action.

Take this case. (Please, take this case. Please!) Pretty standard: a wife worried that her husband is having an affair. So I bug him, follow him around a bit, poke around his place of business. (He runs an accounting firm. How much of a cliche is that?) Turn up some circumstantial evidence, but nothing conclusive. Figure out that one of his irregular 'late meetings' isn't in his office, or in someone else's office, but at a motel in, shall we say, not the most salubrious part of town. Sounds promising, right? So, the next time he has a rendezvous planned, I plant another bug and follow him here. With any luck, I'll end up with audio *and* photographic evidence of his guilt. And I can finally get paid!

Assuming that the 'other woman' ever actually shows up, of course.

I idly pick up my camera and carefully line up a shot of the motel room door. It's a tricky one, even for me, but I've already checked and double-checked the angles, focus and light levels and I know I can pull off my usual levels of perfection. The view would be better from the motel car park, or even from the street the ugly complex squats upon, but I'm not in either of those places. When I was scoping the place out previously, I spotted the alleyway over the road, directly across from the room Mr Harrison always uses for his assignations. I had to move a skip and a pile of boxes, but now it gives a clear and direct line of sight. I'm parked up over the road from the other end of the alleyway, and I can see everything.

If there was anything to see.

The beauty of it is, even the most paranoid mistress or cheating husband is unlikely to check the other side of an alleyway for hidden watchers. Sometimes, I even impress myself.

I check everything again, just because, but don't bother to take another test shot before gently setting the camera back down again on the seat next to me. I don't need another picture -- however well-composed -- of a closed door.

What I need is some action!

Mr Harrison must have been in there half an hour or so already, but so far there's no sign of the person he's meeting. It sounds like he's watching TV in there. Just basic cable: not even a little pay-per-view porn to get himself in the mood. In short: total snoozefest. Hence the Marlowe monologue. A girl's gotta find some way of passing the time. Maybe the mistress is going to be no show tonight, and I'm stuck out here for nothing.

Still, I should count my blessings, I suppose. I'm not *literally* going through someone's dirty laundry this time. Been there, done that, seen the skidmarks. *Not* an experience I care to repeat. No, I'll take a straightforward follow and photo any day of the week.

Backup whines suddenly, and I look over to see him turning his head and sniffing the air. "What's bitten your butt?" I murmur affectionately, reaching over to scratch beneath his chin. He shifts a little, and then leans into it, harrumphing loudly before snuggling down again into the seat. I watch him a few moments more, and then shrug and turn back to my vigil. Dogs, hey? Who can say what goes on in their little fuzzy brains?

At least it distracted me from-

Hello. What do we have here? It looks like Mr Harrison's mystery date has arrived. Finally! I didn't see or hear a car pull up, though. Did she walk? In this weather? Crazy lady!

Woah. Head rush. I guess I turned my head a little too quickly. Also, I did kind of skip dinner, and lunch was quite a while ago. I really need to take better care of myself when I'm on a stakeout.

Anyway, this is my cue to spring into action.

I start taking pictures. Ms X walking up to the door. Knocking on it. Half-turning to look out into the night, as if checking for anyone watching. (Sign of a guilty conscience, perhaps?) I slump down lower in the seat, but I'm not really worried. I'm as well-concealed as its possible to be while still maintaining line of sight on the target. Between the dark, the rain and the fact that the motel lights have likely just ruined her nightvision -- and the fact that I'm at the other end of an alleyway -- I think I'm safe. Actually, the visibility tonight must be worse than I'd initially thought. Between that and that hooded raincoat-thing she's wearing, I haven't been able to get a decent look at her at all. I just hope the camera's managed to pick up more than my eyes.

Mr Harrison opens the door.

Hmm. Okay, that's interesting. He looks... surprised to see her. I'm not getting much from the bug I planted in his jacket earlier (too far away from the conversation, I guess), but it confirms that he was expecting someone else. The plot thickens.

She says something; sounds like she's asking if he's going to invite her in. He does so, inconveniently closing the door behind them. At least I managed to get a couple of shots of the two of them together. I guess those *might* be enough for the client, but not for me. Who is this woman and what is her relationship to him? Who was he expecting, and are they still going to show up? My curiosity is piqued.

I may have lost visual, but now they're in the room, the audio is coming through loud and clear. Not that they're saying all that much.

"What are you doing here? What do you want?" Mr Harrison sounds confused, nervous. I bet he's wringing his hands. He does that when he's stressed or on edge.

"Just stopping by to say hello, darling. That's alright, isn't it?" Now *there's* a voice that gets attention. If this was a movie, you'd know instantly that this was the femme fatale of the piece. No doubt she'd also be a voluptuous dame with legs that wouldn't quit. They always are. (And what does that even mean, anyway? 'Legs that wouldn't quit'; makes me think of zombies and robots and monsters from outer space.)

"Uh, yeah, I guess so." Maybe less nervous now, but definitely more confused. I'm kind of surprised he seems to have accepted her her not-really-an-answer so readily. 'Just stopping by,' my ass. That was a loaded statement if ever I heard one. If it were me in there with her, I'd be a damn sight more persistent about getting to the truth.

Sounds of high-heeled footsteps, the rustle of material, the creak of well-used bed springs. She just crossed the room, took off her coat and sat down on the bed. Maybe he was too busy watching her ass or something. Hell, maybe she's naked under the coat. That *would* be one hell of a distraction.

"I have something for you," she continues, almost purring the words. I hear a zipper, and then some more rustling. She must have taken something out of her handbag. (Did I notice her carrying a bag? I don't recall. You're slipping, Veronica!) For a moment, I contemplate sneaking up to the window and peering through the gap in the curtains, like I'd planned on doing when Mr H and Ms X were safely ensconced in the room. Unfortunately, now this pas de deux has become a pas de trois, I'd risk being spotted by the late arrival. Damn it! I really want to know what she's just given him. And I want pictures.

"This is-" Ooh, maybe he's going to say it out loud. Come on, Mr Harrison, keep going.

"For later," *she* interrupts. "Just put it in your pocket for now."

Curses! Foiled by the femme fatale. Oh well. Maybe I'll be in position when 'later' arrives.

And, speaking of arrivals...

A car drives slowly down the street and pulls into the motel's carport. I feel relief (this *must* be the person Harrison was waiting for), followed by annoyance (the car's occupant is male), followed by confused relief (the mystery man heads straight for Mr Harrison's room and knocks quickly on the door).

Huh. Veronica, you have *got* to stop making assumptions. Mrs Harrison might have been talking about another *woman*, but that doesn't necessarily mean anything. You should know better.

Although... Right now, my gut is telling me that this isn't just some sordid little extra-marital liaison. But I guess I'm about to find out one way or another.

Outside: a man shoots nervous glances over his shoulder, his posture hunched and furtive. He shuffles from foot to foot, clenching and unclenching his fists, seemingly unable to keep still. I take picture after picture: the man, his car, its license plate.

Inside: "Aren't you going to get that?" She sounds confident, even faintly amused.

"Uh, yeah." He is anything but.

Mr X doesn't even wait for the door to open fully, shouldering his way inside past a spluttering Mr Harrison.

"-I'm late. Something came up. We need-"

It's obvious when he sees the unexpected visitor. I wish I had eyes in there, but the sound paints a pretty good picture all on its own. Words broken off mid-sentence. I can imagine him also grinding physically to a halt, perhaps even pausing mid-step (because it's funnier), a look of utter shock on his face.

Mr Harrison shuts the door without being prompted this time.

There's a frozen moment of silence, then:

"Who. Is. That?"

I can practically see the full-stops between the words. Mr X enunciates crisply and clearly, speaking with the exaggerated care of someone a mere hair's breadth from completely blowing their fuse.

I *have* to get pictures. I don't think anyone else is going to show up, and it sounds like the three of them are too focused on each other right now to notice me. I quickly throw open the door of my car (being much more careful about how I close it behind me) and quickly jog across this road, down the alleyway (being careful to watch where I put my feet) and, after a brief pause to check for nonexistent traffic, cross the next road on a diagonal, angling my trajectory so I hit the pavement a few metres past the suite that contains my targets. Now it's time for stealth to take priority over speed. As quickly and quietly as I can, I sidle over towards the window, picking up and setting down my feet as carefully as I can to avoid making scuffing noises in the gravel.

All the while, their conversation is coming loud and clear through my earbud.

"She's... This is..." Mr Harrison is stuttering and stammering all over the place, apparently unable to get a complete sentence out.

"You remember what I told you about surprises, don't you?" And that's a threat if ever I heard one. Curiouser and curiouser.

"Umm, you don't like them?"

"Right. And I especially don't like finding a stranger here when it's just supposed to be you and me." A beat. "So who the fuck *is* she?"

"She's just..." Mr Harrison coughs a little, clears his throat.

His lady friend takes over while he fumbles for words. "I'm just a friend. Nobody you need to worry about. In fact, just carry on as if I wasn't here."

Another pregnant pause. I scuttle across the last metre or so a little faster than perhaps I should, cursing under my breath as I slip a little on the treacherous ground. But the scuff and rattle of the sodden gravel isn't *that* loud, and I *really* want to see this. I'm pretty sure Mr X is about to throw a major wobbly.

Except...

He doesn't.

I get into position just in time to see him sigh, kind of shake himself a little and turn calmly to Mr Harrison.

"Let's get this over with, shall we?"

Mr Harrison gives a jerky, trembling nod. Kind of reminds me of one of those annoying bobble-headed dolls that were everywhere for a while.

"Fine," he quavers.

I don't believe this. They're obviously up to something shady (why else would they meet in a no-tell motel?), but they're just going to get on with it with her right there? When one of them doesn't even know who she is? That's... special.

Oh well. Whatever floats their boat. Mine is not to reason why (although I really, really *want* to), mine is just to get the dirt, get out and get paid.

After all, money may not buy you happiness, but it sure makes misery a hell of a lot more comfortable.

And, while I'm on the subject of wealth, so are they. That is to say: Mr Harrison and Mr X seem to be discussing financial accounts. By the sounds of it, Mr X is *really* interested in some of Mr Harrison's clients. Or, at least, their money. I'm no expert on finances, but I do know a little something about asking questions, and it sounds to me like this isn't just a fishing expedition. He's looking for someone or something in particular. I'd also bet dollars to donuts he's keeping Mr Harrison in the dark about the specifics of what he's after, concealing the important stuff among a bunch of smokescreen questions.

It's what I'd do.

Not that I'd ever be involved in anything like this, of course. Whatever 'this' is. It's certainly dodgy as all get out. God, I don't even know how many confidentiality clauses and privacy laws are being violated in that room right now. Many. Lots. Maybe all of them.

So, what's actually going on here? There's an outside chance it could be some kind of law enforcement sting, I suppose, but my gut says no. Is it some kind of insider trading dealie? Blackmail? Picking out marks for a con? Straight-up, old-fashioned embezzlement?

Not enough information. Damn it!

I wish I had a better view of the room. I'm getting some decent shots of the two men talking, but I can't see the woman at all. Wonder what her role in all of this is? As if thinking of her is a trigger, Ms X speaks.

"Why don't you show your friend the present I gave you earlier."

Finally! I automatically start taking pictures as Mr Harrison reaches into his pocket and pulls out... a gun?

Ohmygod, he's got a gun!

I freeze. I know I should do something (even if I don't know what that is), but I can't help it. I'm paralysed.

Apart from my hands on the camera.

Click. Click. Click.

The other man scrambles to his feet, scuttling backwards, his hands out in front of him as if to... what? Ward off bullets?

"What the fuck?! What are you doing? Just put that down, okay?"

Click. Click.

"It's okay," *she* purrs. "Everything's going to be alright."

*Nothing* is right about this picture. Not a damn thing. But, like some kind of demented echo, Mr Harrison parrots her words, his tone strangely calm and even.

"It's okay. Everything's going to be alright."

"Trust me."

"Trust me."

Click. Click. Click.

Mr X is shaking his head frantically, his whole body rigid and trembling visibly. His attention is on the gun, and the man holding it. Neither of them so much as spares a glance for the unseen woman. Is she hypnotising them somehow? Is that even possible?

"I- I don't understand. What's going on here? I thought we were allies, Harrison. Just put the gun down, okay? We can talk about this."

Click. Click.

I should do something. I should move, get help. Even call the police, for all the good that's likely to do. But I can't seem to make myself turn away from the drama unfolding on the other side of the glass.

Drama. That's what this feels like: a performance; a charade. It doesn't feel real.

It feels like a dream.

Click.

"Do it." The words are almost whispered. Part of me is amazed the bug can even pick them up. The rest of me is screaming silently.

No, don't do it! This isn't-

Click.

Bang!

...

...

...

Click.

The inside of a man's head splattered all over the wall.

Click.

The expression on his face almost comically surprised as the body slumps down to lie awkwardly in a pool of its own viscera.

Click.

The body.

Click.

The body.

Click.

The body.

Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.

...

...

...

-dead, he's dead, he shot him, he's dead-

Click. Click. Click.

-mygod, ohmygod, ohmygod-

Click.

Pause.

Breathe.

Click.

My ears are ringing. Gunshots are loud; always louder than I expect them to be. (Not that I'm an expert, but this isn't the first time I've been this close to a gun. But at least this one was pointed away from me, not towards. Small mercies, Veronica.) Other people must have heard; might even now be coming out to see what's going on or, more sensibly, dialling 9-1-1 as quickly as they can grab their phones. I need to move, maybe even call the police myself or something. What if the room's (living) occupants come out and see me? I shouldn't be here. I *can't* be here.

He killed him. Oh my god.

Calm down, Veronica. Panicking won't make that man (body, corpse, cadaver, empty shell of flesh and bone) any less dead.

Dimly, I realise that I can still voices through the clanging and hissing in my right ear, the one with the earbud. It sounds like the bug survived. I can't tell how much of the interference is due to damage to the electronics, and how much is damage to my ear but, if I listen carefully, I can make out enough to get the gist of the conversation.

I feel shaky and sick, the world wavering in and out of focus around me. I recognise the symptoms of shock, but I force myself to concentrate through it. Listen, Veronica; this could be important.

Oh look, my hands are still taking pictures. That's almost funny, in a totally messed up kind of way.

"... dead?" Mr Harrison sounds kind of shocky himself. Not surprising, given he just killed a man.

(He just killed a man! A man is dead! A human being murdered right in front of me!)

"Yes." Her tone is grave. "... blew his brains out."

"Uh, y-yeah. Oh god." Mr Harrison looks down at the hand holding the gun as if it belongs to a stranger. "I- I- I kil- killed..." He trails off into a kind of gulping sob, running his other hand through his thinning hair until it stands up every which way.

"You just took a man's life. Murdered ... cold blood." She pauses for a moment while Mr Harrison sobs and shakes. "How does that make you feel?"

"T- t- terrible. I f- feel terrible."

"I bet you're sorry you did it, aren't you?" He can't even speak in response, just nods frantically, as if the strength of his remorse could bring a dead man back to life. "Why don't you-"

The last part dissolves into a hiss of static, but whatever her suggestion, it seems to galvanise Mr Harrison into motion. He half leaps, half scampers over to the rickety desk, setting the gun down and rooting through the drawers until he comes up with a flimsy notepad and crappy pen. A look of intense concentration on his face, he scribbles furiously on the pad for a minute or two.

(Click. Click. Click.)

Is he writing a confession?

Something's not right here. Aside from the obvious, I mean. This woman, who is she? She turns up uninvited and gives Mr Harrison a gun. She tells the deeply suspicious man he's meeting to act like she isn't there, and he does. She tells Mr Harrison to *shoot* the guy, and he *does*.

I was only half-serious when I thought about hypnotism, but now I'm starting to wonder if there's something in that.

He finishes writing and stands up. He says something, but the bug (or my ear) is still playing up and I can't make out the words. The sound fades back into audibility partway through her reply.

"... know they're going to come for you, don't you? You know what society does to murderers."

"But I d- didn't, didn't m- mean to k- k- k, to-"

"They'll take you away. They'll lock you up. You'll be stuck in a cage forever, knowing that everyone despises you. That your *wife* despises you."

The tears flow freely down his face, sobs choking back any words he might try to force out. He looks in what I assume is the woman's direction, his expression so nakedly, desperately pleading that it almost makes *me* feel sorry for him.

(Click. Click. Click.)

If he hadn't just shot someone.

"Of course, there is *one* way out. A way for you to escape. A way for you to be free. And isn't that what you want, deep down? What you've wanted for so long? To be free?"

He nods mutely, clearly beyond even attempting speech. But there's something else in his gaze now, something stronger than despair, or guilt. It looks like... determination.

"No!"

It takes a moment for me to realise that the voice is mine.

The woman's sudden, sharp intake of breath tells me that *she* heard me, even if Mr Harrison didn't. And suddenly I'm scrambling to my feet, not sure if I'm going towards or away until my feet take me straight for the motel door, automatically lining me up for the kick. (That shoulder barge they always do in the movies? Good for dislocating shoulders. Not so much for opening doors. Even crappy motel doors.)

For fleeting second, I actually believe I'm going to get into the room in time (even if I have no idea what actually I'm going to do in there once I get in), but then she speaks.

A simple question: "Why don't you just end it all?"

"No!" I cry out again, as if that will help, as if it means anything, slamming my foot into the lock which buckles but doesn't give way, so I raise it again and-

Bang!

A moment of frozen shock.

And then I'm off and running before I've even made a conscious decision to move. *Away*, this time; definitely away. One live gun and two dead bodies; I have no intention of becoming the third. I briefly consider grabbing for my phone, but that'll slow me down too much. It can wait until I'm safely in my car and away. Besides, surely someone *must* have called the cops by now. Even in this neighbourhood, a couple of gunshots should still be worthy of notice. You'd think the motel manager would care, at the very least.

I barrel across the motel parking lot like the proverbial bat out of hell, sprinting across the rain-slicked road without even looking, angling my path towards the narrow alleyway. I have to slow down here -- too much debris on the ground; can't risk going ass over apex, not now -- but I weave my way through as fast as I can. My back itches all the while, muscles flinching away from the half-expected impact, but I can't hear any sounds of pursuit.

I can't hear much of anything at the moment, though.

Cross another road blindly, guided more by instinct than anything else. Grab for the keys on a chain around my neck (I learned my lesson after the first time I tried to fumble them from my pocket while running). Almost safe! Just have to-

"Wait. Please."

Huh?

I skid to a halt, nearly slipping as my momentum tries to carry me onwards. Where did *she* come from? I was so close! My mind is racing, trying to find a way out, an angle, something I can use. Does she have the gun? Can I get into the car fast enough to avoid being shot? But then I'll be a sitting duck when I try to start it.

"Can’t we talk about this face to face?"

Gritting my teeth, I turn around to look at her. I *have* to see if she's holding a gun on me or not. I need to know what my options are.

She didn't tell me to raise my hands, so I keep them loosely curled at my sides, bending my knees slightly so I'm ready to move, to attack, to do something other than ending up as a rapidly cooling corpse (the third of the night) on the ground.

I flick my gaze down to her hands. Empty! Thank god for that. *Now* I have options.

Except...

Except then I look at her and...

Oh god.

What's wrong with my eyes? Why can't-?

What-?

It's like I'm looking at one of those magic eye pictures, the ones that look like a collection of coloured dots until you focus your eyes just *so* and a three-dimensional shape just pops into view like it was there all along. But I just can't find that focus point. She's not more than a couple of feet away from me. I'm looking right *at* her. But all I can see is a vague, fuzzy *thing*. Maybe it's human shaped? I don't know. I can't tell.

This is really starting to scare me.

"What are you?"

I don't mean to say anything, but as soon as the question spills out of me I know on some deep, primal level that it's the right one.

'What', not 'who'.

The world reels around me, or maybe I'm the one who's reeling. I feel like I'm standing on the edge of a cliff. My gut is churning and I can't seem to get enough air. This is... This is wrong. *She's* wrong.

This can't be happening.

Whatever it is.

"I'm not important," she says. And her voice is still the same velvet-smooth purr; incongruous coming from... that.

But... that's not important, not really.

"In fact," the voice continues, "I was never here."

That's strange. There was something... I just can't put my finger on it. Whatever it was. Oh well. I'm sure it'll come back to me if it's important.

("You didn't see anything tonight.")

I shake myself, trying to clear away the cobwebs. Why am I standing out in the street instead of being inside my nice dry car? Too busy woolgathering, I guess.

("You look tired. Maybe you should go home and sleep. Everything will be better in the morning.")

A massive yawn splits my face. *Damn*, I'm tired. Late night surveillance is a real pain sometimes, especially when the night's as dull as this one. Too bad Mr Harrison and his putative mistress never showed up. Did I get the wrong motel? Oh, I'm too tired to try to figure this out now. Backup yelps and whines from inside the car, and I half-heartedly shush him.

"What's bitten your butt?" I wonder, half-laughing as I remember wondering that earlier, before getting out of the car to double-check on the frustratingly assignation-less room. "It's deja vu all over again," I murmur to myself, yawning again as I fumble the car door open and settle myself inside. I need to get home before I fall asleep at the wheel. I can sort this out tomorrow.

Yep. Tomorrow.

Everything will be better in the morning.


End file.
